The Slouching Politician
by SpaceAnJL
Summary: Written as a birthday present for immortalbeloved, this is a rewrite of an original Conan Doyle story – tweaked a little, for the modern age, but not very much.
1. Chapter 1

a/n – Written as a birthday present for immortalbeloved, this is a rewrite of an original Conan Doyle story – tweaked a little, for the modern age, but not very much.

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"_Come at once if convenient – if inconvenient, come all the same. S.H."_

John scowls at the text. Typical bloody Sherlock. He just wants John to sit in the corner so that he can throw random comments at him, and then berate him for being slow. Well, it won't work this time. John has work to do, his own life to live, he can't be at the beck and call of that skinny lunatic all the time.

Five minutes later, he swears to himself, and catches up his jacket.

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The lanky figure is flung carelessly over the sofa, one long pale forearm adorned with a patch.

"The Camford Clinic."

John's eyebrows rise slightly.

"Expensive."

"You've heard of it." It isn't a question.

"I read the papers, Sherlock. Celebrities go there to 'rest', come out looking ten years younger. Diet, exercise...and probably high-end cosmetic surgery. They also do a nice little line in dealing with addictions..." A sudden silence from the kitchen, and then John leans back out of the door, frowning. "Sherlock...?"

A pale hand waves away his concern.

"Mycroft contacted me. One of his pet politicians is acting oddly."

"Define 'odd' for a politician. It's either oranges and bin-bags, or hand-carved duck-houses."

"He's decent, honest and competent. Such a rare beast needs to be preserved, apparently."

"I'd go past 'rare' and into 'mythical', if we're talking about a politician. But he's one of Mycroft's cogs in the machine, I get it."

If he was someone Mycroft concerned himself with, then he was presumably extremely capable, politically useful, or both. But...

"It isn't like you to do favours for Mycroft." John sets the mug of tea down sharply. "What's he holding over you?"

"He's calling in an old favour." Sherlock admits.

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John Presbury's whole career has been built upon the fact of his being a solid family man. Not even in the hackneyed sense of 'family values', with the attendant lip service and revealed hypocrisy. No, when Presbury had been left a widower with a small daughter, he had quite genuinely devoted himself to bringing her up. Quite as many column inches were lavished on Edie Presbury and the family dog, Roy, as were dedicated to her father's pursuit of tougher legislation against drink driving and vehicular manslaughter.

"...and now he's got himself engaged to his press secretary."

"Looks like the usual story. Blonde, half his age." John tilts his head to admire the photograph. "Alice Morphy. She's a bit of a cracker, actually. Don't blame him. Why should some bloke's striking lucky ring alarm bells? Unless Mycroft thinks someone's been poisoning his Viagra."

Sherlock gives him a stare, and the corners of his mouth twitch.

"Very good, John."

"Huh?"

"Back in June, he took a trip abroad, to a health spa in the Czech Republic. Since his return, he has been making regular visits to the Camford Clinic."

"Ah."

"And recently, his dog bit him."

"What?"

"Quite." Sherlock tilts his head. "Put the kettle on again, John. Our visitor is here."

Jack Bennett is Presbury's PA, a tall, diffident young man in a quietly expensive suit. He's trying very hard not to show his horror at the chaotic room he's found himself in, perching on the edge of the armchair. Between natural politeness and political caution, the sparse facts are nested in circumlocution and disclaimers.

Since his return from his holiday, Presbury has become more restive, reckless with his money. He had been slipping away from his office at regular intervals, and it was only by the inadvertent interception of a phonecall that Bennett had discovered the appointments at the Clinic. In all innocence, Bennett had queried this with Presbury, and had been blasted by an unprecedented fury. This new temper had manifested itself again, and on one occasion, Roy had snapped at his master.

"I can't force him to see another doctor, and the Camford is hardly disreputable. But the mood swings..."

"There's no other sign of confusion?"

"None at all. He's as alert and sharp as he's ever been..."

There's a disturbance on the stair, and a leggy brunette in boho chic, all tiny skirt and long scarf, comes through the door, dog first. Bennett springs to his feet.

"Edie, you're not supposed to be here..." The protest is weak, and her sunny smile tells them exactly how much notice she takes of it.

"Oh, do shut up, Jack. He's my father, after all." She sails serenely past him, and plants herself in his vacated chair. "Come on, Roy, sit."

Roy is a mutt. There's a good deal of spaniel in there, a touch of terrier, and some of the solid body of a retriever, but it would take more than even Sherlock's deductive skill to untangle the exact mix.

A feathery tail is wagging madly, and there is very little slavering going on. Slobbering, certainly, but the villain of the piece is making a pretty poor show of savagery.

"So, this is the vicious brute." She says, defiantly.

The 'vicious brute' rolls on his back, tongue lolling, and looks up at John hopefully.

"Of course, you _would_ be a dog person." Sherlock grumbles. John, crouching to make a fuss of Roy, looks up and gives him a crooked grin.

"At least when a dog wrecks your slippers, he doesn't try and claim that it was merely an experiment."

"I've had Roy since he was a puppy, ten years now, and in all that time, he has never, ever attacked anyone. And it's only in the past couple of months he's even snarled at Dad. We used to feed him worming tablets, and he never even growled."

He's certainly one of the dopiest dogs John has ever encountered, with a look of concussed good nature. He collapses happily at his mistress' feet, and dribbles on her boots. John, abruptly aware of those long coltish limbs in supple leather and sheer denier, scrambles up.

Sherlock is hardly surprised at the young woman's presence – a forceful personality. She sits casually back in the chair, her vivid face all charm and cheekbones. The 'little girl' was now a University student (LSE, just started her second year.) Sherlock watches John trying not to watch her legs, stifles a smirk.

"Have you mentioned your engagement to your father?" he asks, blandly. "No, obviously not, because you are worried as to how he will take it. There was enough trouble over your wishing to live in halls. And Bennett is worried about his job, accusations of inappropriate behaviour. The worry is new, though. Before you went away to University, before Alice, you wouldn't have worried at all."

"I thought he was just being a silly old man." Edie says, in rush. "Come on, Jack, don't try and hide it, you did, too." Her clear eyes turn from one man to the other. "Look, I'm not saying that Dad hasn't had girlfriends in the past, but Alice is only a few years older than me. You can't expect me to be chuffed at the prospect of a stepmother I went to school with. But that's not the real issue." Catches up her lip. "He's...changed."

"He's certainly become harsher, less patient."

"This isn't a matter I could take to the police. What would I say? My father has a blonde girlfriend half his age, and he's trying to keep up with her? But something's wrong, Mr Holmes." She looks fierce, and suddenly very young. "I don't mind him buying a sports car and pretending to be Peter bloody Stringfellow if it makes him happy, but he's not himself any more. Whatever they are doing to him in that place, it isn't right."


	2. Chapter 2

"There was another incident, the day before yesterday." Bennett says reluctantly. "I was working late at my desk, when I heard a crash from Mr Presbury's office. When I opened the door, one of the bookcases was tipped forward, and he was hunched behind his desk. But before I could see if he was hurt, he'd sprung to his feet and, er, abused me."

"There's nothing wrong with Dad's health." Edie adds. "He's taken up rock-climbing again."

"He will have another appointment at the Camford on...Thursday next week." Sherlock doesn't even open his eyes, fingers still steeple in front of his face. "I'll speak to him then."

"What will you say?" Bennett is bewildered.

"Whatever I need to." Fingers wave a dismissal.

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John escorts the pair out. Bennett is still unsure, but Edie seems to have a blithe confidence.

"I read his site. And your blog. If anyone can work out what the hell is going on, it's Mr Holmes." Strides off down the street, with both dog and boyfriend at her heels. John wonders which of them is the more obedient. Sighs, and trudges up the stairs again. A really pretty girl. And probably half his age.

"She's twenty, John."

John doesn't want to know how he does that.

"She's really worried about her father."

"Presbury has an annual physical check-up every year. The last one was two weeks after he got back from Prague. Clean bill of health."

John assumes that means that Mycroft has liberated confidential medical records. Again.

"So, you're planning to march up to the man, and demand to know what right he has to spend his money on some kind of rejuvenation therapy?"

"Something like that."

"It's hardly illegal."

"But the behavioural changes are sudden and worrying enough for his friends and family to become concerned. For _Mycroft_ to become concerned." Sherlock opens one eye briefly. "The Camford is not a hospital. It promotes itself as a holistic lifestyle and internal well-being centre."

John gives a rude snort.

"Crystals and candles? You might as well believe in fairies at the bottom of the garden."

"A somewhat harsh assessment."

"Look, I'm not saying that everything non-conventional is rubbish, I understand the psychological comfort, but you can't turn back the biological clock by sticking a garden hose up your arse."

"Of course you can't." Sherlock agrees. "But you can hide injection marks amongst acupuncture. The question is whether it is being done with his consent or not."

"Injections?"

"Obviously something is being introduced into his system, which is affecting not only his neurological state, but also his natural body odour. The dog, John."

"So I wasn't so far off the mark with the poisoned Viagra, then?"

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John wonders how long he will be able to keep his locum position. Sarah had been very tight-lipped about his changing shifts at short notice. And she very pointedly hadn't asked why, either.

The Camford Clinic is making him nervous. The building is...well, beautiful. Clean, comfortable, the most modern technology discreetly displayed, to assure the client that this was the very best treatment that money could buy. John is sure that he's seen two soap stars and a footballer just on the walk from the reception desk to the waiting room.

"Why does it have to be me? I'm sure you would be far more convincing."

Sherlock huffs.

"You do not actually have to go through with any procedures, John. It is merely a consultation." Eyes his flatmate. John could not be described as metrosexual. Nobody who wore those jumpers could be. Sherlock appreciates their effect – people dismiss John as cuddly and harmless, (which makes them idiots, because which bit of 'battle-scarred army doctor' passes them by?) but it is true that he does fail to convince as a man who would seek out a mani-pedi. "You could say that you were considering some work around your eyes."

John is offended. His face has _character_, thank you very much.

"My face is perfectly fine. Not all of us _want_ to have cheekbones you could slice cheese with."

He feels scruffy and clumsy and out of place, on edge. He knows that people are trying to gauge who he is, what he does. You cannot just stroll in off the street, after all – you need an appointment. And, frankly, you need money. He knows that he does not look the part. Not like Sherlock, who fits right in, amongst the models and actors and pretty people, expending easy, fake charm at the receptionist.

John, who has scraped together the remnants of very young men (and one or twice, women) to send back to their families, to a lifetime of struggling with meagre benefits, cheap prosthetics and interminable waiting lists, is far from impressed by the urgent need of some talentless shrieking bimbo to get her breasts enlarged (again) or for some media whore to need the ravages of his coke habit fixed. And he's even less impressed by the price list for what amount to a face-pack and some smelly candles.

Sherlock waves that away.

"Covered. Mycroft is footing the expenses for this fishing expedition."

"I still don't feel comfortable here..."

"Relax, John, people will merely think that you are trying to make yourself over to keep your younger lover interested." Sherlock's smirk drops as he sights his quarry.

Presbury is a tall, loose-limbed man, with a hard, hawkish face. His silvered hair still thick, and the eyes are keen. John hopes that he looks half as good at sixty. If he makes it that far. Living with Sherlock is...eventful.

He allows himself to be led away by a smiling attendant in white, not without misgivings.

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The waiting area is more like a discreet club class lounge, groups of low designer chairs, glass tables, a few staff circulating with mineral water or herbal tea.

Sherlock strolls over, casual elegance, leafing through a couple of magazines as he takes in detail.

_...well-kept, tight discipline over his figure, eats and drinks well but healthily, has maintained an exercise regime, pays attention to his physical appearance, definitely a vain man, combination of narcissism and determination predisposing him to politics, but able with it. Wealthy background, accustomed to the best of everything, unaccustomed to failure. Daughter now an adult, which means no longer able to avoid reality of time passing. Able to project a commanding presence, no sign of weakness in limbs, no sign of mental confusion..._

"Extraordinary place, this, isn't it?" he murmurs, allows a slight nasal twang into his voice. "So central, and yet so peaceful. You wouldn't believe this was still London."

Presbury gives him a sharp look, not quite hostile, but definitely a bit wary.

"I was referred by a friend, lovely chap." Lowers his voice a bit further. "So much more discreet this way. Johnny is an absolute darling, but time marches on. And there are things you just can't get on the National Health."

"Are you a reporter?" The voice is harsh. The powerful body before him is suddenly taut, gathering itself together. "While my career is open to scrutiny, I regard my private life as just that..."

Sherlock feigns offended dismay. Inwardly, he is calculating how much force he might have to use to put this man down, and not liking the answer. The mask of urbanity has fallen, and he can see why Bennett is worried for Edie, and possibly himself.

"Terribly sorry, I was just trying to be friendly..."

"So sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but if you would like to step this way, Mr Presbury, your treatment room is ready?"

_...late-forties, accent is from the north of the Czech Republic, uses 'doctor' as a courtesy title, but has no medical licence. The suave frontman for the business. And very, very definitely worried about his client's behaviour. Not because he doesn't know why, but because he definitely does..._

Sherlock gives a charming, meaningless smile, and settles into a chair. Two minutes later, he slopes out for a furtive cigarette, finds a small group of fellow social pariahs near a far less salubrious side entrance. (It gives him a chance to palm a swipecard off a porter, take note of the layout and security surveillance.)

He's actually starting to get edgy, wonder if he should march through the building, looking through the treatment rooms, when John ambles back out, with the loose easy stride of a man who has been pampered by a pretty woman. Ljuba, whose correct English has a Slavic accent filtered through generic American, had been truly horrified by the ravages of time and sun on his skin. Sherlock gives his flatmate a hard stare, sniffs.

"You smell of coconut." He says. "John, did you get a _facial_?"

John simply gives him a blissed-out grin.

"Perhaps there is something to this lark after all."


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock has concluded that Presbury has consented to whatever the Clinic is doing, and that he is aware that whatever it is, it is not something strictly legal. He knows why Mycroft wants him to dig at this, too – not enough proof yet for official channels, and a degree of deniability. With this in mind, he makes arrangements.

(A passcard, a generic uniform given a few tweaks, a backdoor wifi connection through a receptionist's terminal.)

So John comes blearily downstairs one morning to find a strange young man uploading the contents of a flashdrive onto his laptop.

Merc is a lean, pallid creature, slightly better dressed than a lot of Sherlock's contacts, but still with that edgy, feral quality John associates with some kind of addiction. In this case, it is the marginally more socially acceptable kind, technology. John doesn't know how he hacked into the Clinic, doesn't want to, knows he wouldn't understand if he was told. But the laptop is now stuffed with incriminating and illegally obtained files.

He's still expostulating about that, and the fact that Merc has had the last of the milk in some industrial-strength coffee before he slunk out, but Sherlock has tuned that out, busily raking through the data.

However deferential and ego-stroking the experience may be, the Camford Clinic is still essentially a business. The financial records and membership lists are prosaic. The Director, Anton Dorak, might not be a doctor, but he obviously has some very shrewd insights into human nature. Make something seem secret, exclusive, and people will clamour for the privilege. The very highest level of all is 'White Card'. How droll. Sherlock filters those names. John runs his eye down the list, makes a soundless whistle.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, this is a tabloid journalist's wet dream..."

A couple of the names are very familiar, and he's fairly sure that he's seen others go by in screen credits. At least one is the real name of a pop star.

"No athletes, though." Sherlock muses.

"Drugs tests." John says, still reading. Looks up abruptly. "It's something that leaves a trace in the system. You may be right about the injections."

Sherlock ignores the 'maybe', disdainful. Of course he's right.

"Erratic behaviour in those of a bohemian profession is almost expected. They didn't notice the side effects until they started dosing someone normal...Ah, this looks promising."

Sherlock's knowledge of biochemistry as it relates to poisons is unparalleled, but he is neither a scientist, nor a doctor. However, he has a doctor to hand, one who is reading over the notes with a certain degree of sick horror in his face.

"These letters are from... my God, Doctor Laszlo Lowenstein."

John is no expert, but he keeps up to date with certain medical journals, and the name is familiar. A couple of years back, there had been a small uproar about some revolutionary, and unfortunately highly unethical, work with gene therapy.

It seems that Lowenstein has continued his work, unapproved by any official body, taking his funding from what amounts to his test subjects.

John tries to wrap his mind around the idea of people so desperate to hold onto or regain their youth, that they will allow themselves to be used in this procedure. Of scientists who are so intent on playing at God, that they regard humanity as something to be taken apart, reconstituted, spliced together in a laboratory. He's not a religious man, but the idea of something simply created to be just human _enough_ makes him queasy.

Sherlock regards the idea with curiosity. How much of the effect was psychological? Increased strength and agility, with no apparent loss of cognitive faculty... But John is still raging about the perversion of scientific research. Sherlock interrupts.

"Without experimentation, there would be no progress."

"There's a world of difference between trying to cure senile dementia, and just allowing rich idiots to act like they are twenty again..."

"Yes." Sherlock interjects, faint malice. "Vanity is more profitable."

"...This isn't proven medicine, this is screwing around with nature without constraint." Runs a hand through his hair, and the tremor is not feigned. "Christ, who knows what this stuff will do to these people in a couple of years time?"

Xenosis, the possibility of cross-species infection. HIV, CJD, a whole alphabet soup of things that could break free and riot through the body.

John abruptly remembers that he's talking to a man who has injected himself with things quite as harmful, if better known. Sherlock lifts a shoulder, doesn't quite look at him. John glares.

"No, you don't get any of it to play with." He growls. "Do you really want to start swinging around London, pretending you're Tarzan?...no, don't answer that. You are not shooting up genetically modified monkey hormones, and that's final."

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Lestrade, fresh from the raid upon the Camford Clinic (an anonymous tip-off about possible animal rights activists, and a bomb threat, has uncovered some surprising things,) is sure that something else is up, but the arrival of a sleek black car that disgorges a sleek Mycroft Holmes also makes him sure that he won't find out what. A pretty woman with a Blackberry spares him a sympathetic smile as he is borne away from the scene. He's not terribly surprised to find Sherlock lounging sulkily in the car, or that his ever-present shadow is giving him a strained smile.

Presbury blusters, blanches, collapses back into his chair, when the tired-faced DI explains to him that he has been implicated in a biotechnology scandal, and that he should probably seek both legal counsel and further medical opinion. The quietly official man says little, but his presence seems to withdraw warmth from the room. This is an ignominious end to a career. Possibly to a life.

Sherlock himself is supremely uninterested in the aftermath, now the puzzle is solved. How Mycroft wants to spin this, cover it up, expose it, makes no difference to him. But John, honest John, wants to break the news to Edie, feels a personal responsibility. Drags Sherlock with him.

The problem is that Edie Presbury promptly surges forcefully back down the corridor, her usual entourage of dog and boyfriend now supplemented by a heavyset blank-faced man who simply screams 'security detail'. But even MacPhail can't stop the daughter of the house from blasting into her father's study and yelling at him.

"Dad, I'm not letting you keep injecting yourself with that junk just because you want to impress that bimbo!"

Presbury starts up out of his chair, face distorted with temper, arms raised. And Roy surges forward, slipping his leash to defend his mistress. Both Edie and Presbury shriek as the teeth close, and man and dog go down, a growling, screaming, thrashing mayhem.

It is a seemingly quiet and unassuming man, who surges forward, barking orders in the tone of voice which expects to be obeyed.

John Watson has seen worse injuries than these, worked under gunfire. But it doesn't matter that he is kneeling on clean carpet in the suburban calm of England, and not in the sunbaked dirt of a foreign warzone – as a doctor, his enemy is always the same.

Bennett has his hand twisted tight into Roy's collar, hauling the animal back. It is left to Sherlock to restrain a shrieking Edie from flinging herself into the situation.

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Presbury looks his age, now. Grey and crumpled, all that borrowed vitality drained away. Edie, white and worried, is holding his undamaged hand. Bennett is pulling a reluctant Roy away from the ambulance.

"The courts will probably want to have that dog destroyed." Lestrade says unhappily.

"I don't think so." Mycroft's measured tones beside him. "After all, the animal's perception is what uncovered this whole scheme."

"People are so ridiculously sentimental about their pets." Sherlock mutters.

"Yes." Mycroft moves his calm gaze from his for-once oblivious brother, to the object of Sherlock's attention, a slightly worn figure in a battered jacket who has been checking the neck dressing, handing over care to the ambulance team. John looks exhausted, unconsciously working his own shoulder. The talk of physio has caused a reminiscent ache. Sherlock steps beside him with a brisk swirl of coat.

"We shall be in the local pub if you need us. Come along, John."

Sitting down somewhere warm sounds rather good to John. He's already moving towards the door, his slightly uneven gait matched to the long impatient stride.

"His master's voice." Lestrade murmurs, before he thinks. Cringes faintly. But Mycroft gives him a thin, not unfriendly smile.

"Indeed. But there are worse things in the world than a faithful watchdog, Inspector. You and I know how far off the straight road my brother could tread if he didn't have someone to guard him from himself."

Sherlock forgets to eat, dismisses the need for sleep, is reckless with his own health and safety. But he's prepared to drink (or at least sneer at) warm beer in a tacky pub, and watch while John works his way through pie and chips. It's a start.

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a/n – Clearly, I'm a writer, not a scientist. Hence the deliberate vagueness on some points. This is treading on the toes of sci-fi, not fact. But I didn't have to do very much to the central premise of the original story. People have always tried to desperately hold onto or recapture youth. When Conan Doyle wrote 'The Creeping Man' in 1923, a surgeon named Voronoff was experimenting with the transplantation of monkey glands into humans as a longevity treatment. This was still the stuff of nightmares to many people, shades of H.G Wells' Dr Moreau. Now, HRT is common place, and heart valves from pigs are routinely used in surgery. But the fear is still there, in GM crops, 'Frankenstein food'. A world of fish genes in your tomatoes, and monkeys that glow in the dark...

For a seriously creepy take on this subject, the artwork of Patricia Piccinini will give you nightmares.


End file.
